So, I am not a trained writer. Which is quite apparent from my vocabulary and style of writing. Yes, I call it my style of writing because it is the authentic me. I pick stories from my own experiences and poems about topics I would rather talk about but don’t have the people or the time to do so. Therefore, everything gets written down. A random thought turns into a poem or a short story. But that is me, the real me.
Now, why am I writing this? My close ones have stopped reading my blogs for the past few months because they feel I am too honest or cynical. Or that my posts are too depressing. So they would rather not read them. And I respect that decision. In fact, I don’t expect anyone to read them at all. But to be termed a sad person who feels a bit too much. Or has no filter when it comes to writing posts that just seems unfair. I am an empath. I overthink, love with all of me, and will do anything for those I love. I feel too deeply, stagnancy physically hurts me. And I cannot stay quiet about things/ situations I feel too strongly about.
Next, I have had quite a life. I am 38 years old happy but mostly lost. I am still trying to realize my true purpose in this lifetime. I know I am much more than I seem or even present myself to be. And I want to acknowledge that true me. I know I am on the right path because it feels right after decades of feeling nothing. It is like I was in survival mode all these years and am finally learning to thrive. I can still not differentiate between my anxious thoughts and intuition but at least now I know there is a difference I can one day figure out. So yes, I accept that my posts are emotionally driven and hold an underlying sadness because I am a sensitive person not necessarily a sad one. Life has never been black or white for me but blanketed with shades of grey. I live with depression and anxiety and cannot function properly without medication, but it does not mean I am cynical. It simply means I am sensitive and tend to romanticize life. I believe in signs. I believe in love. I don’t have many friends because I only have best friends. The real ones who see me and accept the real me, wrapped in hues of grey, black, and white.
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 